


Dreams under canvas

by maple_clef



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Camping, Gen, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Post-Foxglove Summer, Spoilers for Foxglove Summer, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maple_clef/pseuds/maple_clef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Nightingale both think they know what happens on a camping trip. But when their particular services are required to sort out a Falcon-related disturbance on the outskirts of London, they both have cause to question some of their preconceptions - and figure out some Home truths while they're at it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams under canvas

PETER

When I was thirteen, a guy in the sixth form called Daryll Richards made it into the local papers for getting his Gold Duke of Edinburgh Award. There was a spectrum of reactions to this: the teachers were pleased, because it reflected well on Acland Burghley as being somewhere that inspired such go-getting feats in its students. Most of the kids treated the news with polite disinterest - Daryll was generally well-liked, but fairly shy and kept to himself. A few younger students got excited by the prospect of association with someone who’d met the Duke of Edinburgh – who, if not quite a celebrity in the modern sense of the word, was at least “someone” - and so Daryll was alarmed to attract a small but enthusiastic fan club for the rest of the term.

 And then there was my mum.

 On seeing the photos in the paper - Daryll holding up his badge, grinning at the camera owlishly with his parents flanking him and the garden party at the Palace in full, elegant sway behind - my mum phoned up Mr Pannu (my form teacher, whose number she somehow had on speed dial) and enrolled me in the DofE Bronze Award after-school club for that September.

 Most of it wasn’t so bad, really. Quite a few of the requirements were useful and/or fun - learning new skills, First Aid classes and the like. The community service element I can honestly say was life-changing, given that I took the option of learning about the police - attending a series of talks about aspects of the Met’s work at the local nick and writing a short report at the end of it. I mean, it’s not like I immediately thought: “fuck me, I’m going to be a copper”, and I’d only chosen that option because Sally Baker, who I had a bit of a crush on, wanted to do it. But I’m just saying… maybe the seeds were planted.

 What is certain, though, is that the DofE Bronze expedition was my first foray into the delights of camping. It was also my only foray into camping. All I’m going to say is we got through it, got the Bronze Award and never, ever spoke of the expedition again. Mr Pannu was very disappointed at the low uptake for the Silver Award next year, my mum never got to do afternoon tea and canapés with Prince Philip, and I’ve studiously avoided Epping Forest ever since.

 So, no - I wasn’t best pleased when Nightingale suggested camping, but not from a position of ignorance, as he probably thought.

 

 

THOMAS

When I was a youngster, we didn’t spend an awful lot of time together as a family. My siblings and I boarded during the term time, of course - and Father was normally busy at Whitehall even during the summer holidays. However, Mama was adamant that we ought to spend at least a week in one another’s company, away from our separate distractions. We often went to Brighton for a week, or to some rural part of England to visit relatives whose names I never could remember, even then. I do remember our family holidays being happy, on the whole, although our last - in 1914 – was a bit of a strange affair. Too many people trying awfully hard to ignore what was happening in Europe, and what that was likely to mean at home.

But the previous year had been one of the best. We’d gone to Suffolk, to stay with Mama’s older brother Reg, a very amiable man. He and his wife Louisa had five children, so between our lot and their lot, space was at something of a premium.

As one of the younger lads, I was consigned to a tent in the paddock. Now, Reg had served in the Boer war, and so my quarters for the duration of our stay was a genuine British army double canvas bell tent, which I shared with my younger brother Robbie and our cousin Archie.

After a hearty dinner (Aunt Louisa was a marvellous cook), we’d all sit around and listen to Uncle Reg’s tales of derring-do, until the little ones started to yawn and we children were packed off to bed, protests (mostly) placated by a mug of cocoa and promises of excursions and adventures the next day. For my part, I was always happy to retire to our little camp, where I would lie awake for ever, listening to the sounds of animals in the woods nearby, and looking at the curious shapes cast by the moonlight on the walls of our tent – shadow projections of the world outside. I might have been in a field in Suffolk – or I might have been in a desert somewhere in Africa, or perhaps a jungle in Borneo. My dreams took me to all those places and beyond, that week. I’ve always slept very well under canvas.

I’m not sure where Peter’s resistance to camping comes from, but hopefully he’ll enjoy himself. It will do him good to get out of the Folly, and Lord knows he could do with a good night’s sleep.

 

 

PETER

I’d decided that if I was going to be camping, I would at least get myself down to Mountain Warehouse and get some decent gear. Nightingale seemed a bit put out, but after we discovered that most of the tents in the basement stores had suffered from damp and were mouldy and (in some cases) rotten, he conceded that a modern kit refresh might be “prudent”.

So I took a stroll to Covent Garden and came back with a 4-man tent, a 2-man tent, three sleeping bags, water purification tablets and some methylated spirits. While I’d been waiting at the till, I’d also chucked in some Kendall mint cake and a trio of “just add water” dried meals, although those were mostly for the novelty value. Molly would be coming with us – although this development was something which nobody seemed totally certain about, least of all Molly, so I thought it was worth being prepared.

The gear went into the boot of the Jag along with overnight bags, miscellaneous provisions from Molly’s kitchen and a box of cooking equipment that I hoped I wasn’t going to have to try and use.

Frank Caffrey and some of his TA buddies were Folly-sitting, and while I’d been loading up the car Nightingale had obviously finished briefing them, because as I was shutting the boot he came out to join me in the garage, with Molly in tow. It was strange seeing the pair of them in what they’d chosen to wear for the weekend; Nightingale’s version of casual I’d more or less got used to – chinos and a polo shirt, in this instance – but I’d never seen Molly wearing anything other than her uniform. She was still dressed in black, but had on some cargo trousers and a long-sleeved, lightweight jersey top. Sort of “goth utility”, if you will. I watched with curiosity as she slunk past me, opened a door and folded herself elegantly onto the back seat.

 

 

THOMAS

Having given Peter some of the responsibility for the logistics of our little jaunt seemed to have made him rather more positive about it all, so my main worry now was how Molly would cope leaving the Folly for the first time since her arrival, over a century previously. When I’d first approached her about the prospect of accompanying us, she’d… well, she hadn’t dismissed it out of hand, but her – let’s call it reticence – was expressed in our meals for the next week. When one has offended one’s housekeeper and friend, it doesn’t seem the done thing to run off and eat at restaurants to avoid the aftermath, and I’m sure that tooth was on its way out anyhow.

Once the truce had been established, I didn’t broach the subject again. However, Peter and I had taken to discussing our plan of action at mealtimes, often within earshot of Molly, and it soon became apparent that she was curious about certain aspects of what we were doing. And very interested about one thing, in particular.

After Peter’s jaunt in Herefordshire, perhaps we should have guessed.

And so it was that, rather than accompany us to enjoy the gentle pleasures of a short camping trip, Molly eventually conceded to attend – to leave her sanctuary, and her self-imposed isolation - because of a childhood wish unfulfilled. And while I’d rather been expecting a certain amount of fear or hesitation on crossing the threshold, she positively skipped out to the coach house as though she had not a care in the world. I could tell Peter was surprised.

We’d left just early enough to beat the rush-hour proper, but I knew the traffic was still going to be tedious. So I let Peter drive – he’s always saying he needs the practice, after all.

 

 

PETER

There aren’t many things I hate about London, but I really, really hate what a pain in the arse it is to drive anywhere for quite a large proportion of the day. We’d managed to sneak in before the bulk of the commuter exodus, but it was a Friday afternoon and despite being September the Indian Summer we were having was in full swing, so too many bastards on flexi-time had decided to get out of town early for the weekend, and were in my way. I’d have been more annoyed, except we were technically doing the same thing.

Sort of. I mean, this was work – definitely Falcon, although since there wasn’t any apparent crime, perhaps it was just Folly business? As long as someone pays me back for the tents, I don’t really mind. But it didn’t feel like work. Nightingale seemed to be in something of a jaunty mood, and was suspiciously chatty. Molly was spending her journey looking out the window at what must have been an alien landscape, given how long she’d spent inside. It felt like the strangest family holiday ever.

We finally got to Epping Forest an hour and a half after leaving Russell Square, which is roughly twice the time it should have taken. I never thought I’d be pleased to see the place again, but it looked surprisingly welcoming. Definitely been in the car too long. I parked the Jag in a shaded spot, tucked onto the verge beneath the low branches of some trees that Nightingale neglected to identify, and I didn’t ask. It wasn’t an official parking spot, but we’d got permission and apparently the local plod would send someone round to check on the car a couple of times while we were in the wilds of the Forest.

Nightingale was out of the car like an excited schoolboy (albeit a very restrained one) pretty much as soon as I’d pulled up. He opened the door for Molly, and she got out – a little more hesitantly, I thought. Probably to be expected, though. She frowned a little as she scanned our surroundings, before seeming to shake something off. I caught Nightingale’s eye, and we shared a smile, which Molly caught sight of. Folding her arms and giving us a reproving look, she inclined her head towards the boot, all business. Apparently it was time to make our move.

 

THOMAS

It never fails to amaze me how much things have come on; how vast the improvements in technology and design over the past century. If I were ever to be in any doubt about the passing of the years, the ease with which one can orientate oneself in an unfamiliar locale simply using a portable telephone to triangulate one’s position and display it superimposed on a map would be proof enough for me. To think that Peter seems to predominantly use his device to play humorous videos of cats.

The kit, once shared between the three of us, was manageable enough to take in one trip, the site being only a short twenty minute walk from the car. Molly seemed to have forgotten any nervousness she might have felt on arrival, and was keeping a steady pace in the middle of our little convoy. It was cool beneath the trees, the evening sunlight gently dappling the woodland floor. The clearing, when we reached it, was still sunny – but before long we were going to start to lose the light behind the trees, so we started setting up camp.

At least, we tried to. Peter reasoned that we’d have more room to see what was happening with the larger tent, which seemed eminently sensible. Half an hour later, however, the damn thing was still in disarray. We’d accomplished the task of removing the various components and laying them out on the grass, but beyond that the only other thing we’d achieved was to get rather irritable. I started to voice (I suspect for the third or fourth time, judging by Peter’s pained expression) the opinion that we ought to have gone with the familiar (to me, at least) option, even if they did have a slight fusty smell to them – at which point, Molly brought us both tea. And then proceeded to assemble the blasted thing, with the consummate ease of someone who had been camping regularly all her life. She’d already put up the smaller tent and, at some point while Peter and I were trying to slot the poles together without either of us losing an eye, she’d set up the Trangia and put the kettle on.

I rather think she enjoyed our looks of astonishment. Well, well.

 

PETER

While Molly was taking to the camping thing suspiciously like a pro, it didn’t seem polite to mention it. So we didn’t. Since she’d done most of the work pitching camp, me and Nightingale insisted on at least helping her with the cooking, although it was a bit of a surprise when she agreed, given the speed at which she usually ushers us out of her kitchen in the Folly whenever we threaten to get in her way.

Nightingale did the spuds, I chopped the onions. I’ve never seen anyone open a tin of corned beef with the key thing that comes with it, but Molly managed it without cursing, losing a digit or resorting to the ritual of bashing-desperately-with-a-rock. The corned beef hash was surprisingly good. Evidently Molly had gone for “authentic camping fayre”, but even so, it was a hell of a lot better than what we’d managed during that sodding expedition. (Given what they say about civilisation being only a meal away from anarchy, that probably explained what had happened, come to think of it.)

We even had dessert, in the form of spiced stewed apples with raisins, washed down with some decent instant coffee that even Nightingale drank without any sign of wincing. Afterwards, I helped Molly wash up while Nightingale trotted off to do a bit of a recce of the surrounding area. By the time we finished, and he returned, it was getting dark pretty quickly, and before long even the midges had called it a day. For us, though, the work had just begun.

Not that it would seem like work to an observer – but waiting around is quite a bit of what coppers do; the fact that we were doing so whilst drinking hot chocolate under a full moon was not to say we were there to enjoy ourselves… Except, I was enjoying myself. Thinking back to the last time I was in approximately the same location, doing more or less the same sort of thing, I started to realise that the essence of camping is not the expeditionary trappings – and certainly not the bit where you get lost and end up walking round in circles. Twice. It’s the bit we didn’t really do much of, which is the bit where you’re just chilling and not doing anything particular. It was kind of nice, I guess. If you like that sort of thing.

 

THOMAS

After my early childhood adventures under canvas, my next time camping was rather less serene. Somewhat perilous, in fact, given that I was operating behind enemy lines. Aerial photographs had provided a sense of the installation in the woods near Ettersberg, but there was a need to get ‘up close and personal’, as I believe Peter might have it. There was no sense going in en masse, and there was a need for someone who had a facility both with magic and languages – and I volunteered, to boot.

It took me a week, camping in the Buchenwald and making forays to the compound at night. I wanted to be certain – and then, when I was certain, I wanted to make damn sure we had everything we needed to utterly destroy the place. During the day, I had to stay hidden – and in fact, it was rather peaceful, hunkered down in my dugout. Easier to sleep in the comparative warmth of the day, I would drift in and out of sleep, surrounded by the smell of the pine needles, the tranquility of the forest belying the atrocities occurring not one mile away. Sometimes I would dream I was back in my Uncle’s paddock in Suffolk. I think it helped pretending it was all a game we were playing, and that I’d wake up to Robbie and Archie talking excitedly about how many sausages they thought they’d like to have for breakfast.

Now, in the company of Peter and Molly, I thought how nice it was to be reclaiming something I’d once enjoyed very much, and how their companionship was in large part responsible for this. It’s been rather a long time in coming around. Perhaps I’m finally getting the hang of being young again.

In an attempt to curtail my sudden attack of sentimentality, I asked Peter to set up his contraption. The moon was full and bright over the clearing, and he set to work, wearing a head torch so as to avoid the need for a werelight. It seemed as though he might be humming to himself – something modern and repetitive that I didn’t recognise, but it seemed to help him concentrate. I must say I was impressed at the apparent increase in confidence he’d shown since his return from Herefordshire. This operation had really been his initiative, and it was something of a privilege to see him recreate the ingenious setup he’d described in his report on the Pokehouse Wood affair. Clever boy. Not that I’ll be telling him that any time soon, mind.

 

PETER

I finished setting up our buffet, securing the last plastic bat in position, and conjured the requisite werelights before returning to the edge of the clearing to join Nightingale and Molly. If all went well, our customer would materialise soon. Molly was perched on a log, her gaze fixed on the werelights, expectant. It was very easy to imagine her as a little girl, wanting to play, being disappointed when she wasn’t allowed out – running away, never finding what she was looking for, just fear and darkness. And then… What? A life of safety, eventually – a cross between witness protection and purgatory. A home, and companionship. A purpose, of sorts. I wondered if Molly would ever leave the Folly. Now, at least, we knew that she _could_.

I felt, rather than saw the change. I sensed Nightingale straighten, alert – and when I turned back to look at Molly, she had already started towards the centre of the clearing. I jumped up to follow, but Nightingale put a firm hand on my arm, indicating for me to hang back a little. Evidently he didn’t think Molly was in any danger of harm - and, knowing Molly, I was inclined to agree with him. Still, I noticed he had picked up his cane.

Together, we advanced.

Molly was standing stock still, about a metre away from the unicorn. It was a juvenile, just as Zach had described. It looked emaciated, wild-eyed and very nervous – but Molly reached out a hand towards it. I didn’t hear her say anything, but perhaps the unicorn did, as it dutifully trotted over and nuzzled its head – thankfully the non-pointy bit – against her hand. As we reached them, I brought out the bag of meat and handed it to Molly, who removed a big slab of beef and placed it at her feet. The unicorn, clearly ravenous, devoured it with gusto. I looked at Nightingale; his expression was wary, slightly uncertain. His grip on his cane was firm, and he’d squared his stance in readiness for… For anything, I suppose. I realised with a start that this was his first time. His first unicorn. If Molly hadn’t been here, with me as the closest thing we had to an expert… it might have gone down differently.

 

THOMAS

I was finding it difficult to relax – years of habit meant that my body reacted to adrenalin in a rather predictable… military way. When you are perennially the senior officer – either in rank or age – you become rather used to having to come up with answers, sharpish. Even to questions you’d never dreamed of encountering, and situations vastly outside one’s experience. So, while it’s super to have somebody else step up and be quietly competent, the feeling that you might have to do something is hard to shake no matter how well you trust them.

As it was, Molly was now feeding the young animal the last of the steak. It really had wolfed the whole lot down very quickly. I was reminded of Toby, who we’d decided to leave back at the Folly – if only so there wasn’t an awkward standoff over the meat.

The unicorn had finished eating, and seemed eager for some affection. Molly seemed to be communicating with it somehow, and was stroking its neck and flanks. Just as Peter had described, it appeared at its most substantial while the moon was unobscured; a cloud passing across would reveal it as something more translucent, glassy – but still unmistakeably solid.

My main concern had been how on earth we would get the creature safely back to where it should be – from Peter’s description, I had rather felt that the task might be beyond my powers. It was certainly beyond my experience. We needn’t have worried, though. Molly – acting under some innate understanding, or perhaps by birthright – did something that felt like a forma, but was at the same time utterly different. I know that Peter experienced it similarly, as I caught the flicker of recognition.

And then, we were standing… I’m not certain where, exactly. I knew that Peter had described it as a parallel dimension, something which I believe would very much have appealed to David. All I can say for certain is that, at that moment, I felt afraid. Never in my adult life had I been so lacking in control of a situation. I could no more have returned Peter and myself to our own realm than I could erase the damage to Lesley May’s face.

 

PETER

I was pretty sure Nightingale was freaking the fuck out, although he was doing a good job of not showing it. I could sympathise – I’d been here before, remember? The difference was, I’d come – or gone? Hard to know the right words – back again. My secret was being okay with not knowing precisely what I’m doing. I’ve always had a talent for it, but since starting my apprenticeship it’s come in particularly handy, and the _real_ secret is this: you’ve got to trust that someone, somewhere, has your back.

Not in a religious way. Just in the sense that you have people. You look after your people. Sometimes you get in trouble for them. But they’ll always look after you, because what else do we have, at the end of the day?

Molly seemed to be drawing her love-in with the unicorn to a close. Her expression was… peaceful, I think. Probably the least guarded, the most open I’d seen her. And with little fanfare, she said something to the animal and it bobbed its head and trotted away into the forest. Molly turned back to me and Nightingale – the pair of us mute and no doubt looking pretty stunned. She smiled, took a last look around. Then she did her thing, everything shimmered and we were back in our own dimension… thingy.

I felt Nightingale relax, and he let out a breath that he might have been holding the whole time. Molly turned to him, an eyebrow raised, as if to say “well, I’m not sure what you were expecting”. And then he started laughing.

I realised I probably hadn’t heard Nightingale laugh – _really_ laugh before. If I didn’t know him better, I might have described it as carefree. It was the laugh of a much younger man, and it suited him.

‘Well,’ said Nightingale, once his laughter had subsided. ‘I think we can call our inaugural Folly camping trip a success. Thank you, both.’

We drifted back towards the tents in companionable silence, even Molly stifling a yawn, I noticed. It started to rain, heavily – a final seal of authenticity on our camping experience, and much more like the sort of camping I remembered.

Somehow, this time, I really didn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a bit of an experiment for me, because I've always considered Nightingale's voice pretty impossible to sustain in the first person for any length of time. And I wanted to have some Peter POV in there, so ended up alternating the two. There are some references in there to a Young!Nightingale WIP, and a bit of a nod to something else I wrote with Molly and Peter, which was fun to include :)


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